


it's in the details

by kimbiablue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, honestly I wrote this to cope with my T6T feels, john thinks about sherlock's lips a lot, sherlock has a crazy idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9227897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbiablue/pseuds/kimbiablue
Summary: “I’d like for us to meet with a forensic artist, to determine how capable we are of describing one another to a perfect stranger, should there be a need in future.”“Why would we ever need to describe each other to forensics though? We’re kind of famous,” John says. “And everyone knows what Sherlock Holmes looks like."In which John struggles to adequately describe Sherlock Holmes, and also thinks about his lips a lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a journey, lemme tell you. The idea came to me maybe a week and a half ago, and I figured I’d write a tiny ficlet for tumblr, to cope with my feels from T6T… 3k words later, here we are. The craziest part of this journey, however, was the fact that I finished this fic yesterday, and then google docs deleted a bunch of it and I had no back up. So I rewrote the deleted parts today (after much frustration) and then it pulled the same shit again. ANYWAY. Here it finally is, after two rewrites, just in time for Sherlock Holmes' 163rd birthday! Enjoy. :)

“There’s something I should like for us to do today,” Sherlock says one Thursday morning, over tea and mould cultures. 

John looks up from where he’s sat in Sherlock’s chair, staring in at his flatmate in the kitchen (this chair is farther from the mould, but he's still able to keep an eye on the madman). He folds his newspaper and nods. “Sure. I’m not scheduled in the surgery today.”

Sherlock turns to him, a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You’re not going to ask what it is?” 

John snorts. “What good have stipulations ever done me anyway?”

Sherlock whirls back to clear away his experiment, but his lips quirk up to one side, an expression John knows all too well. He stands to deposit his mug in the sink, carefully avoiding the flurry of movement that is an exuberant Sherlock, and waits for the man to brief him on what must be an exciting and dangerous pursuit.

“It’s not quite what you’re thinking, John,” Sherlock tells him, and years ago John might have wondered how Sherlock could know what he’s thinking, but he's learned by now that the man can read him in posture or slant of eyebrows or pattern of breathing. “I’d like for us to meet with a forensic artist, to determine how capable we are of describing one another to a perfect stranger, should there be a need in future.”

He pauses in his clean up for a moment to study John’s face, and John isn’t sure if his reaction is being assessed, or if his facial features are being studied a little more meticulously in preparation for this upcoming activity.

“Oh,” John replies. It’s not the strangest request the detective has ever thrown at him, at least, though how he's expected to help an artist adequately capture someone as exceptional as Sherlock is beyond him. “Of course. Preferable to being shot at!”

He chuckles, but he knows his comment holds no weight. He lives, and has lived, for thrill and risk and danger and Sherlock. His divorce from Mary, his resumed life at Baker Street, his decrease in surgery shifts (and subsequent sharing in case compensation); they all predicate his need for this life. There's nothing else for him. He'd follow Sherlock through a shooting range full of venomous snakes in hell. 

Sherlock moves into action again, sweeping samples into the garbage bin. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be amenable. Things such as this can prove to be rather intimate.”

“Yeah, that’s… fine. That’s good?” He’s not quite sure why it came out a question.

“Excellent,” Sherlock responds, grabbing John by the shoulders and pivoting around him. “Get dressed, John!”

“Why would we ever need to describe each other to forensics though? We’re kind of famous,” John says, his words trailing into a shout as Sherlock dashes down the hall to his bedroom.

“And everyone knows what Sherlock Holmes looks like,” he says to the empty kitchen.

—

As their cab pulls up outside the silver facade of New Scotland Yard, half an hour later, John turns to Sherlock in surprise. 

“Scotland Yard?”

“Where else would we find forensic artists at our convenient disposal? I called in a favor from Lestrade.”

John scowls. “Isn't the point of this jaunt something about  _ complete strangers?” _

“There are in fact many within the Met with whom I am not familiar, the team of forensic artists among them. Never much use for their specialities in my line of work.”

“Yeah, but who's to say they're not familiar with you?”

There is enough merit to John's question that it gives Sherlock's confidence pause, and despite his goading, John hates to see it. He clears his throat and claps Sherlock on the shoulder as he opens his door. 

“Doesn't really matter though, does it?” he says over the top of the cab. “Today's not serious, just practice, yeah? For if we ever really need to do this.”

He still cannot think of any circumstance where such a procedure would be explicitly necessary, but he's learned to not question Sherlock's whimsy when it doesn't involve illegal substances. 

An unsure and tight-lipped smile is the response as John leans down to the driver's window to pay, and Sherlock heads toward the building, ridiculous Belstaff billowing behind. The cab pulls away, and John jogs to catch up.

“Listen, Sherlock, I don’t mind, honest,” he says, reaching out for Sherlock’s arm before they enter the building. “I’m happy to do this if you think it’s-”

He cuts off as Sherlock turns abruptly, arm still held in John’s grasp, to place both hands on John’s face and stoop to bring their eyes level. John knows the look in Sherlock’s eye - appraising, cataloging; but for a moment he mistakes the purposeful nature behind the gaze and startles, face flushing and eyes dropping to the bow of Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock steps back in response, hands still pressing into John's cheeks, and narrows his eyes with what John recognizes as uncertainty and curiosity. John clears his throat, drops his hold on Sherlock's arm, and averts his eyes. He considers that Sherlock might have been too clueless to recognize his reaction, but he isn't banking on it; there's understanding behind Sherlock's uncertainty, and indeed, while half of him hopes for ignorance, he finds the other (largely physical) half suddenly hoping for the opposite, for intent, for action-

Sherlock's broad hand sweeps through the crest of his ash blonde hair. “Look at me, John.” 

John squares his jaw and turns his head, but the clinical expression is back on Sherlock's face, and the moment has passed. A strained chuckle escapes John as Sherlock straightens, hands falling from face. 

“Well, I daresay we know each other’s faces better than we know our own, but a glance to refresh couldn't hurt.” He pauses, thoughtful, and runs a hand through John's hair again. “And this is relatively new, this… swoop thing that you've done. I'll want to get that right.”

What John had intended to be suave, Sherlock fondly calls a swoop. John wants to deck him for being so endearing. 

“You're keeping it, yes? I'd hope so, it's quite a nice new look. Suits you, though everything always has. Well, perhaps not those hideous jumpers…” Sherlock is prattling on now, fingers dancing across John's scalp, perhaps unaware that he's flattering John as much as he is, with his face grabbing and his hair caressing and his compliments. “Do you need a moment to look me over as well?”

_ Christ no,  _ John nearly responds, not merely because Sherlock is right that John knows that ethereal face better than his own, better than most things actually, but also because he doesn't know if he can manage taking in the details of Sherlock, in public. Instead he swallows heavily, gives his jacket a perfunctory adjustment, and runs his eyes over the face in front of him in what he hopes passes as thorough. Anything more and he fears he'll end up with an embarrassing reaction again. 

“Granted, not much has changed with my appearance and I feel confident in your recall-”

The movement of his mouth draws John's eyes downward. And then Sherlock stops speaking because John's fingers are suddenly on his lips.

Oh. There's the embarrassing reaction. 

They stand for a moment that way, Sherlock with mild surprise, yet tolerant of John's apparent method of memorization, and John locked between mortification, and contemplation of what such dramatic lips would feel like on his own now that he's touched them for the first time.

“John,” Sherlock says, and maybe it's questioning, maybe it's wanting, maybe it's asserting, but John doesn't hear it because those lips move under his fingertips and he feels the strangest urge to-

“Oi, you lads planning on coming in?”

Lestrade’s voice is a jolt back to the moment, to the fact that they're standing outside Scotland Yard, to the fact that most likely more people than just Lestrade saw their exchange.John’s hand drops from Sherlock's lips and he pivots in a near about-face, praying he has some dignity to spare, while Sherlock calmly turns his head to acknowledge the inspector’s presence. 

“Course, I can just leave you there to fondle each other,” Lestrade makes to head back to the doors with a shake of his head, but John catches a glimpse of a good natured smirk. 

“That won't be necessary, Grant,” Sherlock replies crisply, motioning for John to join him in step behind Lestrade.

“Greg,” John hears Lestrade mutter, but he's focused on Sherlock; it could be a trick of the light or the heat under his own skin, but John could swear there's a faint rose flush to the detective’s cheeks. 

They follow Lestrade through the Met doors, and too late, John realizes he should have asked Sherlock if he's ever found an adequate way to describe his impossible eyes, because god knows John has never found a word to do them justice. 

\---

“Sherlock, you'll be with Bradley Wolfe. John, with Andrew Newton.” 

Lestrade ushers them down unfamiliar halls within the Yard, finally stopping between two doors opposite one another. He can tell that Sherlock has indeed never met either of the artists, from the deductions _ (Of what? Their nameplates? Their window hangings?)  _ dancing thankfully silently on his lips; John likes to believe, at least, that Sherlock has learned polite restraint, from his own influence. 

“Bit unconventional, this,” Lestrade says, checking his watch. “But we all know how Sherlock is when he gets an idea.”

“Oh don't we,” John throws a grin over his shoulder at Sherlock, which then falls slack as he softens at the look in Sherlock's eyes and the memory of lips under his fingers. 

“Thank you, Grayson,” Sherlock says to Lestrade, though his eyes remain on John. The mistake is enough to break the tension for John and he's suddenly laughing again. 

“Greg,” he corrects, at the same time as the inspector, affectionate and amused, with Lestrade’s voice long-suffering yet tolerant. 

“No problem, right? Well, I'll leave you to it,” Lestrade says, with a pinch to the bridge of his nose, and indicates the doors. “In you get.”

\---

“Let's get started, shall we?”

Newton's first question is the one that nearly puts John at a loss. How does one even begin to describe Sherlock Holmes adequately? The world's only consulting detective isn't a person you omit details about. 

How do you describe eyes and cheekbones and curls and angles, and that mouth? And that's assuming the artist is only interested in the neck up. John envies Sherlock the task of describing a uncomplicated army doctor, rather than a modern day Adonis with features for which there aren't enough adjectives. 

“Dr. Watson?” John's attention snaps to Newton, who looks like he's already said John's name at least once. 

“Right,” John says, with a shake of his head, folding his hands over his knee. He's sat in Newton's office, opposite the artist with a sketchpad at the ready on his desk. It's not a difficult task, he chides himself. If Newton asks him specific questions about physical attributes, it shouldn't be too hard. This man doesn't need to know every intricacy, even if they're important in John's mind. 

“So, we'll start with the general face shape.”

_ Angles and cheekbones?  _ John thinks, and then,  _ oh hell.  _

\---

20 minutes pass, finding John feeling too warm, and the artist smirking as his pencil moves across the paper. John has discovered that straightforward questions about physical characteristics do not always have straightforward answers.

_ “Hair?” _

_ Dark, most would say black, but it's brown, you can tell in firelight, or on days that aren't so cloudy, or when Sherlock is invading your personal space. Naturally curly, how does it curl that much on its own, I don't think he uses product. Usually parts on the left, the curls are prominent over the eyes and on the sides, and at the nape of his neck, oh the portrait is only front facing, the back of his head isn't important, but well, of course it's important. Soft, though most probably wouldn't know that either. _

_ “Dark, curly, parts on the left, almost to his ears and down his neck a ways, and a few curls usually hang down to the right,” is what he tells Newton.  _

_ “Eyes?” _

_ God, I'm glad this portrait isn't in color. Shame on one hand, but I still don't know what color you'd call them. Doubt anyone could get the shades right anyway. Angled, what do people call that, feline? Sharp, like everything else about him. Christ, when the light hits them. But they're bright even when it's dark. They can smile, they can frighten, they can take you apart. They can put you back together.  _

_ “Very light, slightly angled, I guess, a bit farther down from the hairline than in most people, yeah,” he says to Newton instead.  _

_ “ _ Mouth?” Newton asks him now, expression and tone suggesting he's highly entertained by John's continued struggle to condense his thoughts, and by the steady deepening of color in his face.

This is about facial features - John knows the purpose of the exercise, but there's so much more to Sherlock that can't remain left unsaid, even if only in his mind. John can't ever forget all the all things that make Sherlock who he is. 

“Should be done after that,” Newton continues, prompting John into speech. 

“Right, yeah. Mouth.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. Average size, I suppose…”

_ There's that ridiculous curve to his top lip. Probably the first thing I ever noticed after the eyes. Do normal people have lips that dramatic? Oh, I just compared Sherlock to normal people. He'd never forgive me. Is Newton drawing him with mouth closed? Or lips parted? Christ, that. Should I describe his teeth then? Tongue? Then there's that look he gets, that thing his mouth does when he's figured something out- _

“There's a serious dip in his top lip, and the bottom is a bit fuller than in most men, I think,” John relays to Newton, and the pencil resumes its course along the paper. “Yeah, and his lips in general are sharper than average, I suppose? Though it really depends on if you're drawing him with mouth closed or open… you know I don't actually know if the curve is more pronounced one way or the other, oh, but there's also times when he gets this cocky smile, I swear I've never seen someone's lips go so far up one side, and-”

He breaks off when he realizes that Newton's pencil has stopped, then squares his jaw and settles back as he takes in the artist's expression. It's a look he knows well, because he's seen it repeated damn near since the beginning of his time at Baker Street; curious and assuming, in regard to the nature of his relationship with Sherlock. 

Neither man speaks, and after a moment Newton quirks his eyebrows once before bending his head over the portrait again. John rubs a hand over his brow, his disquiet less to do with Newton's cheekiness than the realization that for as much as he's seen, there's so much more that he's missed. 

Unbidden, an image comes to him -  Sherlock playing his violin in the half-light of their flat, eyes closed yet somehow still expressive, lips moving in a hum to the music, a curl begging to be brushed away from his temple, his fingers dancing with the bow. 

“There's that done, then,” Newton says, setting down the sketchpad and interrupting John's thoughts once more. “Care to take a look? See if it's as good as the real thing?”

John exhales, leans forward, and extends a finger to swivel the portrait to face him, staring down into the flat greyscale face of his best friend. It's a decent likeness, and Newton's skill is commendable. Except for-

“Ah. Well. The lips.” John hovers a finger over the graphite mouth, a sad imitation of warm flesh beneath his hand as he stood outside with Sherlock. “They're, well… the dip, the curve, whatever you like, it's not quite… his is more…”

"I believe the term you're searching for is 'cupid's bow'."   
  
"Ah." John's face is very warm. Newton's laugh is quiet as he turns the sketchpad back to make his correction. John stands from his seat and follows the image until he is behind the desk, watching the pencil glide over lips the way he wished his own fingers had. 

_ I know his face so well, but I’ve never been able to stare at him like this, or for this long. And what about the rest of him, christ, what haven’t I seen? What don’t I know? Why is some half-cocked idea of Sherlock’s… why is a stupid drawing the only time I get to appreciate him? _

_ Shit. _

_ I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes. _

John’s body launches from leaning over the desk to ramrod straight in an instant, hand twitching at his side in old habit of raising to salute. He blinks rapidly, no longer focused on Newton or the portrait.

_ Of course I bloody am. _

“Would you excuse me for a moment?”

\---

Sherlock looks up when John knocks on the half open door to Wolfe’s office, and John can see more in that face than he ever could have described to Newton. 

“Are you done already?” Sherlock shifts toward him; subconscious. Have they always done that with each other? Remarkable. 

“Nope.” John steps through the door with purpose. 

“John, is something wrong with-”

Sherlock is pulled nearly out of the chair by his shirt collar as John’ lips collide with his. Hands move to his face, to his hair, as he grips John's arms and breathes, warm and heavy, through a kiss that neither of them seem to realize they've been anticipating for a very long time. 

“Yeah, I wondered,” says Wolfe behind them. “Thought I'd have to do a full body piece just to draw sunbeams out your ass, the way he talked about you.”

John's lips turn up as he pulls back and chuckles softly, relishing the grin he receives in response. It's so very Sherlock, just as he's always been, just as  _ they _ have always been. Nothing is different, and everything is different, all at once. 

“Yeah well,” comes Newton's voice from the doorway. “This one had me redo Holmes’  _ lips _ a few times, said I wasn't getting them  _ just right _ …”

“You did that?” Sherlock's giving him that look, lips pursed and quirked, that John understands as half fond, half about to laugh until he can't breathe. He traces a finger reverently over the curve of Sherlock's upper lip that he now has a name for, wondering if there are artists who can pen what it feels like to experience someone with senses other than sight. 

“Feel free to piss off for a few moments, yeah?” He addresses the men behind them with a smirk, then returns his attention to the man he intends to thoroughly kiss, right here in this chair. He hears one of the artists mention a bet with Lestrade before they make their way out. Sherlock gives him a mockingly stern glance.

“John, it's Wolfe’s office.”

“You’re one to talk,” John says, all affection as he presses forward to touch and smell and taste Sherlock once more. He should have always known that sight and sound would never be enough for him to experience this man, his best friend, his other half, the only person who will ever make him feel complete. 

His chest burns as Sherlock's lips move softly against his, and he thinks,  _ now we can get every detail right _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](http://kimbiablue.tumblr.com/) and say hello! :)


End file.
